


Unidentified

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hickeys, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: He’s maddening. That hasn’t changed a bit in the last six weeks.Except it has changed. It’s changed rather drastically, what with the new arsenal he has at his disposal.





	Unidentified

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Always/post-After the Storm tag, set sometime just after Beckett's suspension has been lifted, probably, but let's pretend that Cloudy with Chance of Murder didn't quite happen yet.

He’s maddening. That hasn’t changed a bit in the last six weeks. 

Except it has changed. It’s changed rather drastically, what with the new arsenal he has at his disposal. 

“Say it.” 

His voice is hot in her ear. Strained and breathless. She’s not alone at the breaking point, and really, that should be satisfying. Rapidly accumulating evidence that she’s getting a bit of her own back. That he thinks _she’s_ maddening. Oh, it _really_ should be satisfying. 

“Say you’ll come, Beckett.” 

But there’s the problem of ambiguity. The problem of the all-purpose nature of his insistent command. The fact that it _is_ a command, and damn if it doesn’t have her skin flushing hot and her hips rolling against him. 

She’s close. She’s _so_ close, and of course he knows that. Of course he’s fucking smug about it. It’s that particularly maddening fact gives her the will to struggle. 

“Why should I?” she hisses. 

She grips his wrist with slick, clumsy fingers that skate over his skin. But she’s practiced enough—she’s damned well annoyed enough—to pin his arm overhead. He surprises her, though. He rolls with it. Enthusiastically adds his own momentum to hers, so she winds up on top, and the grin he tips up at her says that’s absolutely fine with him. 

“Because I want you to.” 

His voice is low, lazy rumble. An afterthought, as he peels his shoulders from the damp tangle of sheets beneath him. He dips his head, keeping his gaze on hers as his lips unerringly find the tight, flushed peak of her nipple. He draws it into his mouth. His eyes flutter shut on a moan as he opens wide  to savor it, slick salt and rough texture.

It’s fascinating. The unalloyed pleasure he takes in her body. How undone he is in the act of undoing her. The unabashed fun he’s having, whoever’s on top. 

It’s maddening. 

Her breath gets trapped somewhere too high in her chest to do her any good. Her arms go weak, but he’s there to catch her. He bands one arm around her back and hooks the other behind her knee, taking them face to face. He hikes her thigh over his. His fingers drag like lightning up to the slickness between her legs. 

“Because you want to.” His thumb grazes her clit. He dips a finger inside her, curling. Circling, and stroking. Toying, not-so-idly, then moving on. Maddeningly. “Say you’ll come.” 

Two fingers now. An unexpected thrust. A rough, insistent sweep of his thumb. A sharp nip at her breast, followed by the slow drag of his tongue, and she’s crying out. She’s howling and digging her nails into his shoulder. His back. She’s locking their lower bodies together with the press of her heel into his thigh.

She’s coming, long and hard and helplessly as he smiles fiercely against the taut line of her throat. As he talks dirty to her and draws the moment out. She’s coming until there’s nothing left in her. 

* * *

 

“Do you really not want to go?” 

His voice on the other side of the bathroom door makes her jump. She’s been . . . not stalling exactly. She looks at the countertop. At the hand towels she’s folded and refolded. At the soaps and lined-up tiny bottles of God knows what luxuries she’s been working her way through several nights a week in a tub that’s got to be in violation of some law or other. 

She’s been stalling. It’s stupid. 

“How would I know if I want to go?” She pulls the door open a crack. She narrows her eyes and meets him almost nose to nose. “You won’t tell me where we’re going.” 

“It’s a surprise,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like she’s being ridiculous, and ok, she _is,_ kind of, but not for wanting to know. Not for being suspicious. “A celebration.” 

“Of Monday?” 

The door cracks wider. Him or her, she doesn’t really know, but his smile widens, too. He knows he has her, or he’s close enough, and some part of her, stubborn as hell, but all run through with cracks, feels like she should mind. 

“Good enough reason to celebrate.” He reaches through the gap to trail his fingers down her arm, shoulder to wrist. His gaze rakes over her, and she shivers. “But no. That’s . . .  telling would spoil the surprise.”  

“I hate surprises.” She snatches his hand. Squeezes it hard enough to make him wince. To make him play it up so she laughs. So she kicks the door open and shoulders her way into his clumsy, not-quite-ready embrace. “Think you’d know that by now.” 

“You’d think I would.” He finds his feet. He steadies them both, even as he explores the skin her thin, pretty summer top leaves bare. Even as she feels his breath grow shallow beneath his ribs. “I’ll have you back by curfew.”  

“ _Whose_ curfew?” 

She pushes at his chest, but it’s half-hearted. It’s a ploy so he’ll wrap her up, and he does. He winds his arms tight around her middle and walks her backwards into the bedroom. He brings them even  with the wrack and ruin of the bed, and his knees go a little weak in time with her own. 

“I’ll have you back.” He spins her back to his font. He draws a shuddering breath, and soldiers on. “I will.” 

His lips brush her shoulder, but they’re moving. They’re crossing the threshold into his office. They’re halfway across the living room when she finally digs her heels in. 

“Castle.” She pivots. She holds him at arm’s length, and she doesn’t know what she might say. What, exactly, her issue is. 

“I’m not, Kate.” He leans toward her, a chaste kiss before he shows her his hands. Gives her space. “I’m not . . . whisking you off somewhere safe.”  

He scowls a little at that. Scowls a lot, actually, because he’d like to. Oh, he’d _like_ to, and the admission—the voice he gives to every misgiving she hasn’t all this last little while—topples the last bit of resistance in her.  

She trips forward. She shoulders her way into his arms again. 

“Well?” She nips at his neck. She presses a sudden, easy grin to the open _vee_ of his shirt. “What are we waiting for?”

* * *

It’s a Crown Victoria, utterly nondescript, with New York plates. It’s her car that was, or close enough, and it’s disorienting to say the least. When he hands her into the passenger seat. When he slides behind the wheel and fumbles a little, orienting himself to something that’s obviously a rental. Curiously a rental. 

It’s disorienting to see the world this way. To feel light and easy as they glide their way out of the city under skies that aren’t quite dark yet. It’s strange and freeing to laugh at some ridiculous claim he’s making to distract her as she gropes for the lever that drops her seat back with a series of angry clicks. 

“That safe, Detective?” He glances over at her, concern belied by the hand that drifts from the gear shift to the strip of skin that comes to light as she stretches her arms high overhead. 

“Is any of this?” She arches her back. She presses into the warmth of his touch and lets her eyes close.

“Hope not,” he says, low enough that he probably didn’t mean her to hear it. “ _Really_ hope not.” 

He’s silent after that.  For him, at least, he’s silent. He’s all brisk questions and teasing reassurances as the stop-and-go gives way to the smooth, rolling expanse of something other than city streets. She answers, or she doesn’t. Not with words. She answers with a roll of her head or the pop of one hip to send his roaming fingers back where they belong. 

She doesn’t sleep. Not quite with the low thrum of excitement he gives off. With the coiled-tight music he’s chosen. Electronica and something close to classic metal. Something trance-inducing with a desultory melody she can’t quite place. She’s not asleep, but she’s blinking in the dark when he stops. When gravel crunches and her eyes open and it’s absolutely dark. 

“Castle.”

The sharp-metal click of her seatbelt releasing is loud in the darkness. The after-image of the dash-glow as he cuts the lights.

“We’re here.” His voice is hushed. Excited, as he takes her by the wrists and pulls her upright. Practically vibrating as he slides an afterthought of a kiss  across her lips. “We’re here.” 

The locks pop and he’s tumbling out. He’s tumbling away from her. Into the near-black and suddenly around to her side of the car. He’s sweeping the door open and practically lifting her from the seat. Practically brushing her aside as he cranks it upright and forward. 

She stops him. She goes stiff armed and rigid from head to toe. She stills him, nose to nose. 

“We’re . . .” Her head tips back, and something itches. Something _aggravates_ her. “We’re nowhere.” 

She drops her chin. She looks right at him, and her breath gets trapped somewhere high in her chest when their eyes meet. His are dancing. They’re laughing and smoldering and alight. 

“Give it a second,” he says, but he doesn’t follow his own advice. 

He comes for her, teeth flashing, mouth open against her skin. He backs her into the car and rolls the two of them, tugging and pushing and tugging until he’s spun them both almost beyond the bumper. He spins her out and reels her back in as he yanks open the back door and tumbles her in. 

“You know,” he murmurs, but his hands are relentless. Under her shirt. Over the tight curve of her hip. “You know, don’t you, Kate?” 

She’s under him. She’s dazed and breathless and utterly compromised, but it’s familiar. All of this is like something imagined. 

She rises up. Her fingers hook in the collar of his shirt, and her mouth finds his skin by memory. She sucks and nips and breathes him in. She remembers, with sudden, urgent fidelity, his scent.  The breadth of his body and the welcome warmth of his cheist where her cheek rested against it.

“The turnpike.” She bites down hard, halfway down the tantalizing strap of muscle she remembers all too well. “Exit 9.” 

“Just past.” He groans. “You remember.” 

He twists savagely away from her. He fists one hand in her hair and her head tips to the side without her say so. 

He ravages the column of her neck. There’s no other word for the fierce, thorough, _determined_ assault of lips and teeth. He sucks at her skin, his mouth wide and wet and insistent. He marks her, blood vessels bursting, and a thousand nerve endings crying out as he does. 

He _marks_ her, and all the blood in her body rushes everywhere at once. The surface of her skin. The cleft between her legs. Her suddenly insistent fingertips. It rushes everywhere and she still has breath to speak. A driving desire to know. 

“Celebrating,” she manages as his tongue suddenly swipes past hers. “What are we celebrating” 

“World UFO Day, Beckett. Happy happy.” 

He’s laughing at her. He’s smug and self-satisfied,  and entirely maddening. 

He’s wonderful. He’s the best thing that has or could have happened to her, and there’s nowhere in this or any other world she’d rather be than here, writhing beneath him. 

“Happy happy, Castle.”  She flips their bodies. She hikes her thigh over his and grips his wrist. She welcomes every memory. Every fantasy she’s had that picks up exactly one moment after she’d woken against his shoulder. 

She grins dangerously down at him and his breath catches high up enough in his chest that it’s no good to him and she marks his skin. She leaves a message for anyone who dares to look. Anyone who cares to see. 

Nowhere in this or any other world.   

**Author's Note:**

> July 2 is, apparently, World UFO Day. And Castle would 100% want to commemorate that with a very-much-identified hickey administered in a Crown Vic off the Jersey Turnpike.


End file.
